


Experiment #3: Then I saw your face

by WoodsWitch



Series: Lust is Hell [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Greece, Blow Jobs, Courtship through literature, Crowley.exe has stopped working, Human kindred spirit, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Kissing, Literary analysis as flirting, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, epics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27610550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoodsWitch/pseuds/WoodsWitch
Summary: Part 4 of Lust is Hell, 850 BC.In which Crawly’s date with a human goes much better than his last few encounters but triggers an uncomfortable realization regarding his feelings about a certain angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Lust is Hell [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995316
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	Experiment #3: Then I saw your face

Crawly sprawled on a low couch in the crowded room, a cup of resin-flavored wine in hand as he listened to the blind poet recite the tale of a long-ago war. The notes the bard’s accompanist plucked from his lyre were slow and mournful.

_While the long night extends her sable reign,_  
_Around Patroclus mourn'd the Grecian train._  
_Stern in superior grief Achilles stood;_  
_Those slaughtering arms, so used to bathe in blood,_  
_Now clasp his clay-cold limbs: then gushing start_  
_The tears, and sighs burst from swelling heart._  
_The lion thus, with dreadful anguish stung,_  
_Roars through the desert, and demands his young;_  
_When the grim savage, to his rifled den_  
_Too late returning, snuffs the track of men,_  
_And o'er the vales and o'er the forest bounds;_  
_His clamorous grief the bellowing wood resounds._

Though the story had gone on for several winter evenings so far, the audience was rapt, hanging on the poet’s every word. Of course, this bit was far more interesting and poignant than some of the earlier episodes. There were many misty eyes in evidence, and even the demon himself felt an unaccountable lump in his throat. He took a gulp of wine in the hope of washing it away.

_So grieves Achilles; and, impetuous, vents_  
_To all his Myrmidons his loud laments._  
_'In what vain promise, gods, did I engage,_  
_When to console Menoetius' feeble age,_  
_I vowed his much-loved offspring to restore,_  
_Charged with rich spoils, to fair Opuntia's shore?_  
_But mighty Jove cuts short, with just disdain,_  
_The long, long views of poor designing man!_  
_One fate the warrior and the friend shall strike,_  
_And Troy's black sands must drink our blood alike:_  
_Me too a wretched mother shall deplore,_  
_An aged father never see me more!_  
_Yet, my Patroclus! Yet a space I stay,_  
_Then swift pursue thee on the darksome way._

Crawly sighed, and glanced away from the stage, eager to look at anything that might distract him from the sad turn of the bard’s story. It was odd, really, the way humans liked to wallow in tragedy; you’d think they’d have enough of it in real life. As one of the damned, Crawly certainly had. While by necessity maintaining a certain realism, he preferred to focus on the positive when he could. Still…there was something about these words that both stung and soothed his charred yet hopeful heart.

The demon’s eye fell on a young fellow in a white tunic perched at the end of the next couch. He was watching the performance as intently as the others, if not more so, but as he watched he was scratching away at some sort of tablet with a stick. His broad brow, fringed with golden curls, was furrowed in concentration, and his tongue poked slightly out of the corner of his mouth. 

_Ere thy dear relics in the grave are laid,_  
_Shall Hector's head be offer'd to thy shade;_  
_That, with his arms, shall hang before thy shrine;_  
_And twelve, the noblest of the Trojan line,_  
_Sacred to vengeance, by this hand expire;_  
_Their lives effused around thy flaming pyre._  
_Thus let me lie till then! Thus, closely press'd,_  
_Bathe thy cold face, and sob upon thy breast!_  
_While Trojan captives here thy mourners stay,_  
_Weep all the night and murmur all the day:_  
_Spoils of my arms, and thine; when, wasting wide,_  
_Our swords kept time, and conquer'd side by side.'"_

A sigh rose up from the crowd, followed by words of praise for the poet, and Crawly realized the performance was over. As the host’s family and their guests began to talk and mill about once more, Crawly levered himself into a posture approximating ‘upright’ and leaned over to the fellow with the tablet. “So, what’d ya think?” he inquired in a conspiratorial tone.

Tablet guy’s blue eyes shone. “Oh! Master Homer’s telling is the best version I’ve ever heard. Don’t you agree, Master…?”

“Crawly. Yeah, it’s pretty good. Bit of a downer, though.”

Tablet guy nodded. “Oh, yes. But Homer’s words make you truly feel and understand the tragedy. That’s why…” The man’s mouth snapped shut abruptly.

“That’s why what?” Crawly said curiously.

“Never mind.”

“Come on,” the demon wheedled. “Has something to do with the notes you’ve been writing, does it…?” He paused, waiting for a name.

“Chrysanthos.”

Crawly grinned. The name suited the fellow, what with his round earnest face and rather wild yellow curls 1.

The young man bit his lip uncertainly. “How do you feel about _writing_ , Master Kuroles?” He said the word like it was something scandalous.

“Eh, it’s all right." The demon shrugged. "Useful for some. Do a bit myself sometimes, for business. But I’ve got this friend… Er. Acquaintance. Colleague. Whatever. ‘S quite keen on it.”

Crysanthos glanced around. “Well, then. If you’re really interested…I could show you.”

The young man didn’t hand over the tablet, as Crawly expected. Instead, he got up and bid good night to his hosts, glancing hopefully at the demon over his shoulder. Intrigued, Crawly got up and sauntered after him. They crossed the road and rounded a corner to a much more modest street, where Chrysanthos opened a door. Crawly glanced around at the room, which smelled like ink and papyrus and dust, and realized this must be the scribe’s house. Chrysanthos put a cup of wine in the demon’s hand and waved him toward a shabby couch. “Please, Master Kuroles. Do make yourself comfortable.”

The demon took up his customary sprawling posture on one end of the couch and looked at his host curiously.

“Do you read Phoenician letters, Master Kuroles?”

“Yeah, a bit.”

Chrysanthos sat down at the other end of the couch. “I learned them a few years ago from a visiting trader. I’ve been working as a scribe ever since. There’s lots of folk who need lists made, or messages sent, who don’t have the knack themselves. But I started thinking of all the other things one could write down. And, well…”

Shyly, he handed over the tablet. It was coated in wax, and the wax was covered in words.

Crawly’s lips moved as he sounded them out. “Oh, I see. You wrote down what the bard was saying?”

The scribe nodded, and took a sip from his own wine cup. “I’m not sure if its right. Some of the old men, they say writing things down ruins the memory. And I don’t know if Master Homer would like it if he knew I was…capturing his words, I suppose. But he is an old man, and traveling can be dangerous even for the young and sighted. I couldn’t bear it if those words were lost forever. So I jot them down on my tablet, and then later I write them out properly.”

He waved a hand at some papyrus sheets carefully stacked on a crate in the corner of the room.

Crawly stared at him. “You’re writing it _all_ down?”

The scribe nodded.

“You’re not keeping in that bloody long list of ships, though, are you?”

Chrysanthos looked shocked. “Of course!”

Crawly rolled his head and groaned. “But it’s so _boring_!”

“Maybe, but it is important information,” the scribe sniffed. “People ought to know which of their great-great-grandfathers were part of this highly significant event.”

The demon gave a non-committal grunt. “Well, at least tonight’s bit makes up for it.”

Chrysanthos stared sadly at the tablet in his hands.

“What?”

“I’m out of papyrus. I can’t afford more right now. But that means I’ll either have to skip the next bit, or wipe the wax smooth and maybe forget this before I can copy it…”

“Hey, hey. Don’t worry about that right now,” Crawly interrupted. Something about the scribe’s expression produced an overwhelming urge to cheer him up. “Tell you what. Why don’t you read me a bit of what you’ve already written? I know I missed a few nights-worth.”

It was at least five cups of wine later, and Crawly was feeling very warm and - despite the cramped conditions of the couch, made worse by their increasing inability to remain upright - exceedingly comfortable. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d enjoyed hanging out with a human this much. It didn’t do to get too familiar with humans, really. Not when, relative to a demon, they had the lifespan of a sickly hamster. Still, occasionally there was one that was worth the eventual pain of their loss. Maybe this was one of them. Maybe that was why there was a strange bittersweet tinge to the pleasure of this conversation.

“Thish Achilles guy. Bit of an anger management problem, yeah?” Crawly commented.

The scribe nodded. “Uh huh. That’s the point. Wrath.” He was close enough now to poke Crawly in the chest to punctuate his statement.

The demon nodded. “Right. Like, he’s angry through the _whole story_. Before anything really bad happens, even. Mad enough to stop fighting, let his army get wrecked. Just holds onto that grudge with, with his teeth. Or something. ‘Til he loses the only companion who matters.”

Chrysanthos waved a finger. “Not just his companion; His beloved. Or maybe lover. ‘S a lot of argument ‘bout that 2. But whatever. More than a comrade’n’arms, ‘s my point.”

“Pfft. Yeah. Obviously.” Crawly took a swig of wine. “But just, like…he knows it’s his fault. That’s the point. He’s not gonna say it, but he knows. I mean, can you imagine? Knowing that someone who’s…who’s your whole world is dead? Just ‘cause you were being a stubborn wanker, and let him try to do the job alone. I mean, no wonder he wants to tear down Troy wiz, with ‘is bare hands, and probably half the world besides. But it won’t do any good, will it? Too late for that.”

Chrysanthos nodded. “’S’why it’s a tragedy.”

They go silent for a moment. “D’you think…D’you think people really love like that? Or is it just in stories?” the scribe asks quietly.

“Happens. Sometimes.”

“For, for you?” Chrysanthos inquires tentatively.

The demon snorts. “Hardly. Not in the cards f’r d…damned bastards like me. But I’ve seen it. Lot of tragic endings. Not like _that_ always, but, y’know. Mortals only get one ending to their story. If y’ keep reading long enough.”

“D’you think it’s worth it?”

Crawly sighed. “I dunno. Maybe. Probably. Who the fuck knows?”

Preoccupied with his own thoughts, the demon misses the moment when Chrysanthos leans forward. Suddenly the human’s lips are pressing against his. Crawly’s mouth opens, halfway out of shock, and Chrysanthos moans into it. The kisses are hungry and messy, and Crawly really doesn’t mind at all. In fact, the demon’s cock gives an interested twitch. _Well,_ that’s _new!_ Crawly’s never actually been able to use this particular Effort before without consciously willing it to participate. Chrysanthos’ plump thigh is rubbing up against him as they kiss. The scribe must be feeling the effect he’s having, because he gives Crawly a look that is equal parts shy and flirtatious, and slides lower on the couch.

“May I?” he asks, fingers gripping the hem of Crawly’s dark tunic.

The demon nods, despite the somewhat disorienting feeling that he’s the one being seduced. He thinks he knows what Chrysanthos has in mind, and it’s something he’s been curious to try for some time. When the human’s mouth closes around his cock, it’s all he can do not to leap off the couch in surprise. It’s a shockingly intense thing, as warm and slick as a well-teased quim, but more dynamic. Chrysanthos is making good use of his tongue, and from the sparkle in his blue eyes he is quite enjoying watching Crawly squirm. Something about the sight makes the demon feel like he’s been stabbed with a blessed spear. But in a good way, somehow. “Oh, fuck. That’s…that’s _a lot_.” Crawly’s fingers tangle in golden hair, wanting to tug. He’s held back by the thought of how much stronger he is than this beautiful, trusting human. Chryasanthos hums encouragement, which sends urgent vibrations through his whole body, but he knows he has to be the responsible one. _They break so easily, humans._

So he just watches, running his fingers gently through soft curls. One of the human’s hands rests on his knee. The other is beneath his own tunic, working his own pleasure as he sucks the demon’s cock with startling enthusiasm. Crawly’s eyes close as he reaches the edge – just as well, he’s not sure he’s 100% in control of how they look at the moment – and then he spills over. When he opens his eyes again, Chrysanthos is leaning his head on Crawly’s thigh, panting slightly, his cheeks flushed. His hair is an utter mess. And he still seems to be…

“Hey. C’mere. Let me.”

The human crawls up into his arms, and Crawly takes hold of his still-stiff prick, trying to replicate with his hand what the scribe just did for him. And it seems to work, for only a few moments later Chrysanthos cries out in his own release.

~

Crawly woke just before sunrise, when rosy-fingered dawn appeared to drag him from his dreams. They had been exceedingly pleasant dreams, too, though he couldn’t quite remember why that was so. There was a warm weight on his chest and something tickled his chin. The demon opened his eyes to find a solidly-built blonde figure in his arms; His heart did a complicated bit of choreography before he remembered how that came to be. Crawly carefully tipped Chrysanthos to one side so he could slide free his arm. The human muttered something in his sleep but did not wake. Crawly sighed as he sat up and waved a hand to set them both to rights.

The demon prowled restlessly around the small, shabby room. He felt something complicated and hard to put a name to, which was irritating him. It was like…it was like he’d ordered a drink, and been offered a favorite vintage, and yet it was somehow _wrong._ Not sour, not too strong, not too sweet. A perfectly fine wine - delicious, even - but not the wine it was supposed to be. Like _that_ , but with a side of regret. Whatever this feeling was called, he did not like it one bit.

His eye fell on a letter that lay on the small desk. The scribe seemed to have been preparing a response. Crawly didn’t recognize the name of the sender or the recipient, but there was something familiar about the missive. Something in the slant of the letters, perhaps. The demon sniffed the letter speculatively. Then he set it down again and slipped silently out the door, making his way through the quiet dawn streets toward the port.

He knew the ship before he saw it. It was a graceful thing, with a red-and-white striped sail and a pair of eyes painted on either side of its curving prow. But the most notable thing about it – to anyone of the occult persuasion, that is – was its faint, lingering, sunshine smell. It was a smell that said this ship had been blessed by something more potent that humans’ invented rituals. The merchants were already laying out its cargo on the dock for the inspection of potential buyers: fine reddish-purple cloth, cedar wood, and crates of scrolls and papyrus.

“Are you buying, sir?” a dark-bearded trader inquired of the skinny, red-haired figure poking curiously at his wares.

The man in black shrugged. “Maybe. Tell me…where did you sail from?”

“From Byblos. That’s where we picked up those,” the merchant replied, nodding at the papyrus Crawly had been examining. “First quality stuff. Genuine Egyptian make.”

“Hmm. And when do you return?”

“Tonight, if we can shift the rest of this and find another six amphorae of wine.”

The redhead nodded. “Right. Well, I’ll have a crate of the papyrus. And I’ll be coming with you.” He tossed a small bag toward the merchant.

The trader opened his mouth to protest, but then he noticed the weight of the bag. Inside was enough gold to buy not only the goods and the passage, but to do so three times over. “Right you are, sir!” he said cheerfully.

Crawly waited until no one was looking. Then he conjured up a pen, jotted a note on the first sheet of papyrus, and snapped his fingers over the lot.

~

Chrysanthos yawned and blinked in the morning light. He didn’t feel either as hung over or as sticky as he might have expected. But he didn’t notice that until later. What he _did_ notice was that the handsome redheaded stranger was gone. _Of course._ He thought he’d seen something in the way Kuroles looked at him, an unexpected tenderness behind that sarcastic grin, that made him hope… He sighed. _Gods, I’m pathetic. No wonder as soon as he sobered up he couldn’t wait to…_

His eye fell on something that stopped the flow of self-recriminations abruptly. There was a stack of papyrus sheets, fresh and crisp, on the floor by the couch. And on top of it a note that simply read: _Good luck_. There was a little squiggle underneath that looked vaguely like a snake.

That triggered a flash of memory: His visitor’s eyes. They had started out brown, but as the night went on and the stranger let down his guard, they had seemed to grow golden and serpentine. It was said that humans sometimes entertained the gods unawares. _Well,_ _considering how often that sort of thing ends in a convoluted curse or being turned into a plant 3, I suppose getting _just _a pleasant evening and a stack of stationary is good luck enough_! Though, suddenly, the note suddenly seemed like it might be more of a promise than a polite wish.

~

The harbor of Byblos was a beautiful semi-circular bay. Beyond the beach stood a tall, crenelated wall, with towers every three hundred feet or so that wrapped around the hills behind to enclose the whole city. Inside, square, flat topped buildings huddled shoulder to shoulder, only occasionally relieved by a broad plaza or a cluster of palms or cedars. The narrow streets bustled with women in elaborately folded gowns, jingling with necklaces and bracelets, their heavy locks flowing loose from under ornamented caps, and men in similar caps and long kilts of linen, the ornamentation of which – or lack thereof – denoted their status, with the truly grand sporting colorful, gracefully draped cloaks. Crawly found what he was looking for in a modest side street near the northern end of the port: a small, tidy shop offering colored inks, charms against foul weather, and scribe services. Incongruously, it seemed to be closed in the middle of the day. But the door swung open easily under the demon’s hand.

~

Aziraphale was composing a letter for a fisherman’s son who badly wanted to marry the daughter of a silk merchant. It was a tricky bit of work, but from the love he could sense from both young people it seemed more than worth the effort to find the right words. Aziraphale had shut up the shop to avoid distractions, so he was surprised to hear the door creak open.

“Angel?”

At the sound of that familiar voice, and the sight of the dark figure slouching in the doorway, Aziraphale’s face shaped itself into a delighted smile before his brain could remind it to maintain propriety around The Enemy. “Crawly! What are you doing here?”

The demon sauntered closer, with that gait that suggested he still wasn’t quite used to having legs. “Was just in the neighborhood. Hear you’ve gone into the wordsmithing business.”

“A bit odd, I know. But I’ve been finding it a surprisingly effective way to spread good influences without excess miracles.”

Crawly grinned. “And, of course, it lets you read any new book someone wants copied.”

“Yes, well, that too, of course,” the angel admitted. “What about you?”

The demon shrugged. “Eh, you know. Causing trouble.”

The angel raised an eyebrow. “Of course. Well, do sit down, dear boy. Make yourself comfortable. I should finish this job, but I won’t be a moment.”

Aziraphale sucked pensively on the end of his pen as he considered how to finish the missive.

~

Memories can be triggered by strange things, especially when you have several thousand years’ worth to draw on. This one smacked Crawly in the face like a mullet tossed by an inexperienced fishmonger. Except it wasn’t exactly a memory, was it? The narrative of it, maybe, but the eyes that twinkled mischievously up at him were not blue, but a stormy grey, the curls he gripped a celestial silver… 

“Hrrghnng.”

Aziraphale looked up, and his brow wrinked with concern. “Are you all right, dear boy?”

“Ngk.” Crawly felt a violent blush sweeping up his neck. “Er. Sorry. Gotta go. Got a…thing.”

Now the angel’s frown looked annoyed and confused, as well as concerned. “Well, really! You just got here!”

But the demon was already bolting for the door. “See you, Angel!”

He ran straight back to his own rented room and slammed the door shut. Then the demon leaned against the wall beside the portal and tried to process his thoughts. Of course. _That’s_ what had made that night feel both so easy and natural, and so painful. Chrysanthos looked and acted very much like a human version of Aziraphale. Which meant…

“Arrgh. Bollocks.”

It wasn’t so much the thought of Aziraphale sucking his cock. That would be fine, if the angel were amenable, but it wasn’t particularly high on Crawly’s priority list. No, it was the thought that at some point his idea of a perfect evening had apparently become: ‘Drink and argue about literature with a fussy blonde. If there is snogging and cuddling later, so much the better.’ Satan’s balls, if he _were_ particularly keen to seduce the angel, _that_ would have been a properly demonic goal. Especially if the intention were to make him Fall…

Crawly shuddered. _No. Never that._ He could never deliberately hurt Aziraphale; he’d known that for millennia, whatever he might say to his bosses Down Below. But it wasn’t just that. Crawly was starting to suspect that he would be willing to put himself in the most humiliating situations just to see that ethereal smile. And that if anyone ever threatened the angel, _his_ angel, he would run any risk to protect him. Because if he failed… Crawly didn’t finish that thought in words, but the image of Achilles weeping over Patroclus’ funeral pyre, vowing to take his revenge and follow his companion into the dark came to mind.

_Not just his companion; His beloved_ , Chrysanthos’ voice corrected.

Beloved. _Fuck, this just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it?_ Crawly growled at himself. _Get a grip, damn it. You are NOT in love with an angel. Certainly not a daft, fussy, bookish angel like that._ Memories of a thousand tender thoughts begged to differ, but Crawly squashed them down and hurried on to the next point. _And it’s not like he can love a demon. Not like that. That’d be absurd. It’s a miracle he tolerates you at all. You should be fucking grateful he lets you hang around without smiting you._

Crawly stood up and dusted himself off. _Right then. No more of this nonsense. He’s being polite and professional to a respected adversary. You are going to be polite and professional back. Well, maybe not_ polite _. But…collegial. Not in any way moony or flirty or any of that nonsense. Right? Right._

~

Aziraphale didn’t like to admit it, but he was rather peeved. He didn’t _miss_ Crawly, _obviously_. One wasn’t supposed to _miss_ demons, and it’s not like he saw the fiend more than once or twice in a century anyway. But that was just it: The fellow turned up again for the first time in sixty years, they were just settling in for a nice chat, and then the frustrating snake comes over all queer and bolts for the door! Then two more years without a word! Such behavior was simply rude, even for a demon. And _now_ he has the nerve to write from whatever corner of the globe he’d seen fit to bolt _to_ …

The angel snicked the cord securing the package with more vigor than was strictly necessary, causing the knife in his hand to burst into flames. A quick miracle extinguished it before the wrapping of the packaging was more than slightly singed. Which was fortunate, because inside was a fresh papyrus scroll. It wasn’t just some list of accounts; it was too thick a roll for that and, if he concentrated, Aziraphale could feel the love that the scribe had put into it. There was a smaller bit of papyrus tucked into the end of it. It read (in Phoenician):

_Hey, Angel._

_Seems this writing thing you’re so fond of is catching on. Bet the bards are worried they’ll soon be obsolete! Thought you might be interested in this one. Bloody boring in places, but the good bits are probably worth passing on._

_C._

The angel picked it up the larger scroll with reverence and carefully unrolled the first bit. These letters were Phoenician too, yet the words as he sounded them out were in another tongue. Greek, perhaps? It had been a long time since he’d been to that corner of the Mediterranean, and his Greek was a little rusty, but he could puzzle through it. He whispered the words into the silence of his shop:

_“_ _Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans…”_

_____________________________________________________

1\. “Chrysanthos” means “Golden Flower”. Back

2\. Most ancient authors agreed Achilles and Patroclus were in a romantic relationship; Homer didn’t specify, but it is still the interpretation that fits best with the ‘Illiad’. But in the Ancient Greek mind a romantic pairing _couldn’t_ be between _equals_. Therefore, one of them must be the lover ( _erastes_ ) and the other the beloved ( _eromenos_ ). Patroclus is older, which normally would make Achilles the beloved. But Achilles is clearly the more dominant personality and better warrior, and Patroclus takes on some of the more “menial” tasks like cooking or taking care of the horses. So basically…picture an ancient version of the most tiresome sort of fandom debate, taking place over at least a millennium across two major civilizations.Back

3\. Especially if Apollo is in any way involved.Back

**Author's Note:**

> The ‘Illiad’ is thought to have been written down somewhere around this period. No one is quite sure whether ‘Homer’ was a real, singular, person or just a name that got applied to a literary tradition. I’ve used the traditional depiction of him, as a wandering blind poet. The poem may reference a real conflict between Troy and the Mycenaean Greeks in the 11th or 12th century BC. It isn’t so much a story about the Trojan war as it is a story about Achilles’ rage/wrath (the first word of the poem) and its tragic consequences. If you want a quick rundown, check out Overly Sarcastic Productions’ video on [this theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G3bn0eKt4Rw) and their [summary of the whole work](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=faSrRHw6eZ8). There are cute illustrations of Achilles as a grumpy blanket burrito, among other things.  
> The transcription of the poem into writing was made possible by the importation of the Phoenician alphabet, which over a century or so morphed into the Greek letters we know today. Byblos (now Jubayl), in modern-day Lebanon, is one of the oldest continuously occupied cities in the world. In Phoenician times it was known for trading papyrus from Egypt, and so gave rise to the Greek word ‘biblos’ – book. Of course that had to be where Aziraphale was hanging out!  
> And yes, as seen previously in ‘The light that is coming in the morning’, I do have a head canon that Crowley not only CAN read, he's spent millennia giving Aziraphale manuscripts that say what he can’t, even if he plays it off as: “Eh, well, I don’t really read, myself. But it sounded like just the sort of boring/sappy thing _you’d_ like”.


End file.
